<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Victims by witchway</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29767359">Victims</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchway/pseuds/witchway'>witchway</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Thing That Lives Under The Bed [10]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Demon Tony Stark, Heavy Petting, M/M, Off Stage Violence, Polyamory, Revenge, Trigger Warning: Quentin Beck Exists</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 07:27:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,641</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29767359</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchway/pseuds/witchway</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
      <p>art by the incomparable @mrstarksbaby, without whom this would not exist.</p>
    </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Peter Parker/Tony Stark, Quentin Beck/Peter Parker, Starker - Relationship, Tony Stark/Peter Parker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Thing That Lives Under The Bed [10]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1823884</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. A Devil’s Holler Ghost Story</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrstarksbaby/gifts">mrstarksbaby</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>art by the incomparable @mrstarksbaby, without whom this would not exist.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p></p><div class="">
  <h2>
    <strong>Victims  - Chapter 1</strong>
  </h2>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <strong>A Devil’s Holler Ghost Story</strong>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>It seemed incongruent, telling ghost-stories at a church lockin, especially when Eli Road Baptist Church was currently so hell-bent on keeping their youth safe from anything that sounded even vaguely Satanic (and that list of Satanic threats kept growing… from the Dungeons and Dragons cartoon on TV to the </em>
    <em>Chronicles of Narnia to the entire concept of Halloween to anything remotely scary at the moviehouse in Albany.  Peter heard that the youth had attended a youth “conference” on the “occult” that had warned them against the Care Bears… because it featured magic.  Monica had been livid.)</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>But the Reverend Beck had demanded Scary Ghost Stories, and it was his lockin.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>So the First Devil’s Church youth (along with some visitors from the church in Virgil) obediently hiked to the firepit that had been dug at the halfway point between Eli Road and Saul Road to tell “scary stories.”  Quentin started by insisting he knew the scariest story in the Bible… the story of King Saul going to the Witch of Endor to summon up the dead spirit Samuel, who obligingly appeared to King Saul to scold him for allowing the Witch of Endor to summon up his dead spirit.  The youth complained that this was less of a ghost story and more of a Sunday School lesson that they had all heard before.  Peter commented that it wasn’t terribly scary because the Prophet Samuel had yelled at King Saul all through his life, so why SHOULDN’T he continue after his death?  Which was why Quentin challenged Peter to do better, which is how the story of Tom Dylan Post came to be told.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>But not by Peter, who claimed he didn’t know it.  A long debate followed over who would tell the story.  It amused Peter to no end how many local boys wouldn’t touch it, knowing that it actually frightened them.  (Stories like the Hook Handed Man and the Woman’s Hair Full of Ants Eating Her Brain were safe territory.  The story of a Post-Ghost?  Maybe not.)  But Quentin (and some of the Virgil guests) had never heard the story and insisted it be told.  </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>A chorus of youth volunteered Mike DeSlaughter, who had second best claim to the story, since he was a neighbor of Suicide Lake (the other neighbor, of course, was Missy Lovelace, but she hadn’t been allowed to come.  Mr. Lovelace had declared that she wasn’t allowed to sleep anywhere else other than her own home until her wedding night.)  </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>A second chorus of youth insisted that Mike DeSlaughter SHOULDN’T tell it, as they were there to hear scary stories, not funny ones, and Mike DeSlaughter would just turn it into a standup comedy routine (because Mike DeSlaughter turned everything into a comedy routine.)  </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>In the end, it was Matthew DeSlaughter who told the story, claiming that he had the most factual information, directly from his Mee-maw.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>It was agreed afterward that Matthew would always own the story from then on, as he certainly told it the best.  Only  Cole objected, complaining that he makes it sound too much like a Social Studies report.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Peter was proud of Matty for standing up and speaking, knowing how shy he could be in crowds.  [and it stopped Quentin from poking and prodding him, jabbing a finger into his ribs repeatedly until he agreed to do it.]  Quentin had been squished between Peter and Matthew, insisting that he sit in the center of the log.  When Matthew stood to speak, that should have given Peter and Quentin more room, not less.  And yet somehow, they spent the entire story pressed up against each other as Matty spoke.</em>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <b>The Story Of Tom Dylan Post</b>
  </p>
  <p><b>              as told by Matthew DeSlaughte</b>r</p>
  <p>Tom Dylan Post was not the oldest son of Thomas Post, that was Cecile Wayne, but everyone thought that he would be the one to become the patriarch, which is the son who would inherit the Contract with the Devil.  Every generation, one man had to go to Suicide Lake at midnight to sign the Contract With The Devil to keep their prosperity, that’s what the people of the town believed.  Which is why everyone was surprised when he rode through town in his wagon filled with trunks, as if he were moving away from his family home to set up house somewhere else.  No one expected that and so that’s why everyone in town was talking about it when they saw it.  Tom Dylan dressed in traveling clothes and a new hat, and Miss Laura Foster, traveling in a wagon traveling east going up to the mountain.  Now everyone knew that the family had a cabin been built up there but it was still a surprise because they didn’t expect Tom Dylan to move out of his father’s house, because that meant he was giving up being the Patriarch.   But some people decided that he was just moving out for now, that Thomas Post would probably live to be an old man, because all the Posts lived to be old men (because of that deal with the Devil) and would move back when he was older.  But others said that Tom Dylan had just made a little house on Chimney Hill, although it wasn’t called Chimney Hill then, and that he was going to live there until he became Patriarch, so everybody was confused.</p>
  <p>Now everyone who saw them ride through town said the same thing - that Tom Dylan was sitting up looking tall and proud, in his new top hat and beaming with pride, but Laura Foster didn’t look happy.  She didn’t look happy at all.  Which is why all the old biddies in town stop to talk about it.  Because some thought that Laura Foster had agreed to marry Tom Dylan, because they were the same age and he was the most handsome man in town, but others said she was going to wait and marry Abe Sexton.  But even though Laura’s father had announced that SHE had announced that she wasn’t planning on marrying anybody, that she had PLANNED on being spinsters,    they all thought that Laura Foster was going to marry SOMEONE in that family because Laura, Enid and Ada were inseparable.  </p>
  <p>Now everyone in town who saw them said the same thing.  Tom Dylan looked tall and proud, his new top hat shining in the sun, looking happy and nodding at everyone they passed, although he didn’t stop and talk to anyone.  Miss Foster looked not-happy.  And grave and silent and looked straight ahead and wouldn’t speak to anyone.  Everyone said that day that they knew “something was amiss.”</p>
  <p>Then Tom Dylan rode home that afternoon and then everyone knew something was wrong.  Because Laura wasn’t with him.  But there was something more.  His hat was pulled over his head and his shoulders were hunched up around his face.  He had an old-fashioned coat that was like a cloak with his collar turned up.  Everyone was talking about it.  How he had rode out of town sitting high, sitting proud, his new top hat shining, and how he rode back all huddled up, riding alone.  Everyone said it was just like that song Camptown Races… “I went down there with a pocket full of tin, I came back home with my hat caved in.”  Everybody had an opinion about what Laura must have said to him to make him ride back like that.  And about what he had said that was so bad she wouldn’t even ride back with him.</p>
  <p>Now stories differ about how long it took them to find her body.  But her parents didn’t notice her missing, because she was always at the Post’s.  She was practically living there already with the Post girls.  And it was them who first said she was missing - lots of the old biddies in town had gone visiting the Post’s because they hoped they could find out where Laura and Tom Dylan were going, only Enid and Ada didn’t know they were to be going anywhere.</p>
  <p>But they went up to the cabin on the mountain and they found her.  He didn’t even try to hide the fact that he had done it, he left his big bowie knife, with his name carved in the handle, right there in her chest.  Her neck was cut so deep her head was nearly cut clean off.  He had cut off both her hands.  They looked everywhere for them and when they couldn’t find them they decided he must have thrown them in the river, so that no one could ever find them again.  Because she wouldn’t take his hand in marriage.</p>
  <p>So the townspeople go right up to the Post Homestead and Thomas Dylan invites them in.  Let’s them search the whole place.  The private family chapel and the cellars and all the rooms and the barns and everything.  Says Tom Dylan had packed a knapsack, snuck off through the woods and lit out for Tennessee.  Only no one believed that, because Tom Dylan had so many fine clothes, and always dressed so fancy, and wanted to be fashionable and dressed just like they dressed in London, <em>just</em> like they did in London, and no one believed he would leave all his fine clothes behind.  But there was only one road through town, see, and everyone was looking for him so he couldn’t have rode off in the wagon.  </p>
  <p>Some say he drowned himself in the lake, which is why it’s called Suicide Lake, only they dragged the lake twice, and could never find the body.  And in town people said the door to hell is at the bottom of that lake.  And it’s through that door that the devil would come through to make a deal once every generation with the family.  Some say Tom Dylan did drown himself, but his body went right through that hole into hell.  Others say he tried to drown himself, but when he saw the hole to hell he chickened out, and he went to his family’s chapel and repented of what he’d done and told his family what he done.</p>
  <p>That’s when his family knew what the townspeople would come for him, so all the brothers got together and dug an underground room, just 6 feet by 6 feet, and put a chair in there and Tom Dylan had to sit in there while they boarded it up.  Then he had to sit there in the dark until the townspeople had stopped looking for him.  Then they put a hole in the ceiling and they passed him a bucket to piss in.  Then once a day they would pass him food and empty the bucket.  And he had to live in that room for the rest of his life, all alone.  Until the day he died, then they just covered up the hole and built more of the house over it and his dead body is still sitting on that chair to this day.</p>
  <p>Now when the men in the town were sure that Tom Dylan’s body wasn’t in that lake, and since they didn’t believe he had really snuck off to Tennessee with nothing but a knapsack, they set out to the Post House to demand that the family give up Tom Dylan, so they could hang him.  And that’s what they did.  They marched right up to the front porch, pretty much all the men in the town, and demanded that, and Thomas Post told them to go to… well he told them where to go.  So they set fire to the house.  Everybody that was there that night said it burned to the ground.  That they could see the ladies screaming and the servants trying to save the fancy furniture and hear the animals freaking out and they said they saw Thomas Dylan himself carrying his old mother out, chair and all, to hide her in the woods.</p>
  <p>Well the next day, all the wives of the men who had gone and done it were really pissed… I mean mad.  Really mad.  Ada and Enid and Enid’s daughter Ada Joy were supposed to be witches, real witches who could curse you if you crossed them.  But more than that, Lavern Post was the best doctor in town, people from miles around came to see her,  and all the women in town were afraid that if she had nowhere to live she would probably move away forever.  So the next morning these women went down to the Post Homestead to find out if the Post family had anywhere to live.</p>
  <p>And there was the house.  Just fine.  Looking just like it had the day before.  There weren’t even footprints in the dirt.  The men had come back home with mud on their boots, but there weren’t any footprints of any crowd on the Posts’ front lawn.</p>
  <p>But that tiny little house Tom Dylan had built for Laura Foster?  Burned to the ground, and nothing but the chimney still standing.</p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <strong>The End</strong>
  </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p> </p>
  <p>
    <em>When the story ended, Matthew continued to stand, basking proudly in the audible silence, bowing his head a little when the group actually applauded.  Peter found himself glowing with pride in that moment, pride that Matty, notoriously silent at 14, had turned out to be a kid that could speak so easily, could command the crowd so well.  No one had ever heard him speak for many words in a row before.  Of course, it was hard to get in a word edgewise with a cutup like Mike DeSlaughter for a brother.  Peter was proud of his friend, and proud that it was <strong>his</strong> house that had provided the story that made this moment.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>At the beginning of the story Peter watched the crowd, noting how many were fascinated, amused at how many were genuinely spooked.  </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>But as the story went on, he found himself more distracted by the Reverend Beck.  Quentin Beck, who had demanded the story (and who had demanded that there be stories at all) barely seemed to be paying attention at first, grabbing and jostling Peter or shaking him by the shoulders any time his house was even mentioned.  And during the other stories…</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>...during the other stories his arm was around Peter’s waist, sometimes tucking his hand under Peter entirely, resting there.  Which meant his thumb was directly under Peter’s left buttcheek… did he even know?  Sometimes Peter snuck a look into Quentin’s face… he seemed to be paying rapt attention to however was telling the next lame story, but that hand… that hand couldn’t decide if it was casual or determined.  </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>Peter was proud, at the moment.  When the lockin started Peter was exhausted from his trip to New York City, and dismayed to find Quentin was completely ignoring him, paying attention instead to the new kids from Virgil.  Peter felt invisible.  Felt like he was going home with his hat caved in.  Feeling the way he always felt among a crowd of Devil’s Hollow kids... defeated.  Outnumbered.  He was so alien and different from all of them in so many ways.</em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>But now, sitting on this log, knowing he was the center of Quentin Beck’s attention?   He felt like Tom Dylan, riding into town sitting high and proud with his top hat shining in the sun. </em>
  </p>
  <p>
    <em>It was temporary, of course.  Soon Tony would awake from his summer rest, and Peter would have his best friend back.  But Tony felt so far away now, like a dream Peter had months ago.  But Quentin, on the other hand.  Quentin was solid, and warm, and very near... </em>
  </p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Try To Remember</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Peter… Peter… oh <em>Peter</em>…”</p><p>Peter was a little startled to realize they were parked on the old road that used to go to the South House.  He was surprised how warm the night was.  But laying back on the hood of the truck, looking up at the sky full of stars, that was nice.  The hood of the truck was warm, and the night breeze was pleasantly cool.  And Quentin looked relaxed, so Peter relaxed too.</p><p>The sky was so very, very full of stars.  It was a good night for stargazing.</p><p>At least, Quentin was stargazing.  Peter was Quentingazing.  It was so easy to forget how <em>handsome</em> Quentin was.  Peter shouldn’t have felt this relaxed, felt this safe, with the older man, but he did.  Maybe it was because, now, he was older too.  Maybe it was because he knew all of Quentin’s tricks, and, looking back on it, they weren’t much.  </p><p>And tonight felt so peaceful.  It was everything he wanted it to be.</p><p>And dammit, Quentin’s face was just so damn <em>handsome</em>.  Those eyes, the ones that had made Peter just feel helpless… well,  they didn’t make Peter feel helpless anymore, but you couldn’t deny it.  They were eyes to die for.  And that smile.  It wasn’t as handsome as Tony’s smile, but it was nice.</p><p>“What are you grinning at?”  Peter said when Quentin turned to look at him.  Peter turned his head away to actually look up at the stars, but didn’t pretend he hadn’t been looking at Quentin.  There was no point in pretending.</p><p>“I’m just remembering the time I took you out into the woods at night because I wanted to kiss you, and instead I wound up listening to a lecture on Gilgamesh…”</p><p>“It wasn’t a lecture…” Peter protested through his giggles.</p><p>“It was <em>amazing</em>!” Quentin insisted, laughing as well. “You explaining it to me - the fucking Epic of Gilgamesh.  And Enkidu, and Gilgamesh who is going to fall in love with him, but not yet because he’s currently a wild man, running around naked in the forest so Gilgamesh civilizes him by introducing him to a whore.  You were seventeen for godssake.  And there I was, parked with you on a dark road, hoping I was going to get lucky, and all I could do was look into those gorgeous brown eyes of your and listen to you explain Akkadian cultural mores…” He smiled fondly at the memory.  “It was crazy.”</p><p>“I was TRYING to say that YOUR religion said sex made you uncontrolled and animalistic and bad, but the Akkadians saw sex as the civilizing force.  The thing that made men WANT to control themselves, and fit in with society.  And don’t call Shamhat a <em>whore</em>, she was a prostitute, but that word isn’t… it wasn’t always a bad thing.”</p><p>“Just say ‘pejorative.’” Quentin said gently.  “Don’t dumb down your vocabulary for me.  You never did before.”  </p><p>“Oh god” Peter moaned, covering his face with both hands. He rubbed his eyes, rubbed his forehead, trying to wipe away the memory.  “I was always trying so hard to impress you.”</p><p>“I <em>was</em> impressed.”  Quentin said, turning over and propping himself on one elbow.  Peter turned his head and looked up into those mesmerizing eyes.  It was times like this when Peter remembered that that, in addition to his devilish good looks, Quentin’s eyes were startlingly blue.  <em>How</em> could his eyes be blue and yet so dark at the same time?</p><p>“We were parked on the side of the back road,” Quentin was saying softly, his mouth only a few inches away.  “And you were sitting within arms reach of me, just as bold as brass, telling me about Gilgamesh and Enkidu, the most epic male/male love story of all time, and I was thinking “This kid has more balls than I did at his age… more than I ever will.”</p><p>Peter couldn’t help but smile back.  Quentin’s smile had always been contagious.  </p><p>“But then you had to ruin it by bringing up girls…” he concluded with a smirk, laying back down to stare up at the stars.</p><p>“Me?!” Peter gaped, sputtering.  “Me?  Did the Reverend Quentin ‘How many girlfriends do you have this week Parker?’ Beck just accuse me of…”</p><p>But he laughed when he saw that Quentin was suppressing a laugh.  He lay back and looked up at the sky.</p><p>“Shamhat is an integral part of the story,” he said smirking, relishing the fact that he could make Quentin laugh.  “And excuse me?  Raise your hand if you used to dare me… if you used to double-dog dare me… to ask out a girl to a movie every freaking time I saw you…”</p><p>“I was feeling you out…” Quentin said quietly, sitting up again.  He reached to put one solid hand on Peter’s bicep.  “…before I felt you up.”</p><p>Peter was silent for a moment, looking up at that luscious mouth, so close to his own, when Quentin spoke again.</p><p>“Do you forgive me, Peter?”</p><p>Peter closed his eyes.  He didn’t want to talk about forgiveness, didn’t want to talk about what needed to be forgiven, and why.  Quentin’s hand was now stroking his chest, and he didn’t want to talk at all.</p><p>“Please… you don’t have to say yes.  You can say something else.  Anything at all.  As long as it’s the truth.  I just need to know.”</p><p>“I needed… information…” Peter said, without opening his eyes, trying to explain it as best he could.  “I had a boyfriend, but we... our relationship was… it wasn’t… it was <em>good</em>.  But it was still immature.  I found out that… I found that out.  And that wasn’t exactly the way I wanted to find out but… but I found out from you.  And it led us, to him and me, to... to have a conversation that I didn’t even know we needed to have. Because he was waiting for me to bring up and he’s the kind of guy that really could have waited forever… believe me, he really would have waited forever.  But we had to have that conversation because of you… and it… yeah.  It led to a lot of good things.  So I guess the answer is yes… I guess…</p><p>“And I still have him.  My boyfriend,” he said quickly as his eyes opened again and he found himself looking directly at Quentin’s mouth, now close enough to kiss.</p><p>“I have a fiancé in Albany,” Quentin joked.  “What difference does it make.”  Peter grinned.</p><p>They were inside the pickup cab now, and Peter was glad. When he had been 17, Quentin had made the first move, had kissed Peter BEFORE Peter had worked up the nerve to climb onto his lap.  And that was something Peter had always regretted.</p><p>He grinned as he climbed into Quentin’s lap now, straddling Quentin’s legs with his own.</p><p>“I always wanted to see your face when I did this,” Peter whispered, as he pulled Quentin’s head back by the hair, kissing him hard, just like in his dreams.</p><p>“Oh god kid,” Quentin panted when Peter let him come up for air.  “I nearly came in my pants when you did it the first time,” Quentin breathed against his mouth, and soon they weren’t speaking at all, kissing each other greedily as Quentin pulled him close with strong arms.  Now Peter’s erection was pressing firmly into Quentin’s chest, and that was just fine too.</p><p>“I love how hungry your hands feel,” Peter moaned as Quentin’s eager fingers dug into the meat of his ass.  He wasn’t entirely sure that sentence made sense, but he hoped Quentin got the idea.</p><p>He pulled away long enough to peel off his shirt, hoping there was enough moonlight to show off the body he was so proud of.</p><p>“Fuck,” was Quentin’s only comment, but that was enough. Soon he was biting his way across Peter’s shoulder and shamelessly grinding his hardon into Peter’s body, denim against denim.  Peter was just beginning to realize how complicated it was going to be, getting those tight jeans off in these tight confines, when Quentin hissed and tensed, his fingers suddenly biting into Peter’s biceps, his whole body going still.</p><p>Peter was overwhelmed, suddenly, with another memory. Hadn’t they made out in the woods behind the church, just like this?  And hadn’t Quentin tensed suddenly, his fingers digging into Peter’s arms, just like this?  And hadn’t Peter suddenly wondered if Quentin had been stung by a bee, or bitten by a snake? Because he seemed to suddenly be in pain…</p><p>…but this Quentin didn’t seem to be in pain at all. In fact he was relaxing completely, catching his breath, laying his head back with a goofy smile on his face.</p><p>“What… what?”  Peter asked, confused.  It couldn’t be… but it was.  He pressed himself into Quentin’s lap, but there was nothing there.  Quentin’s erection, that terrifying thing that had haunted his dreams for so long, was simply... gone.</p><p>“Wait… you didn’t just… did you really...”</p><p>“You were <em>so</em> scared of it,” Quentin said with an easy smile. “All you had to do was wrap your hand around it for a few moments and it would have all been over.  You never had anything to be afraid of.”</p><p>“And the night of the lock-in at the church… you?  You came in your pants and then... <em>my god</em> no wonder you turned off so suddenly.”</p><p>“I could have taken care of you too,” Quentin said, still grinning that goofy grin.  Tracing the length of Peter’s erection with his thumb.  “Boys your age get off as fast as I do.  I could have done it right there and then without so much as undoing a <em>button</em>. But I didn’t.”</p><p>Peter looked into Quentin’s eyes, but he didn’t ask.</p><p>Quentin answered anyway.  “Because I’m a shitty person,” he said, reaching up to whisper it against Peter’s mouth.  “And shitty people do shitty things.”</p><p>“Yeah, and that’s the problem,” Peter said, reaching down and pulling Quentin’s hand away by the thumb.</p><p>“This has been nice, Reverend Beck, it really has. But Matty is my best friend… and a lot more than that now.  And you had him so messed up he was literally thinking of drowning himself in my lake. And that’s not okay.”</p><p>“I left, didn’t I?  Wasn’t that enough?”  Quentin whined, trying to pull his thumb out of Peter’s grasp.  “I left and I didn’t come back…”</p><p>“You didn’t have a choice.  Try to remember Reverend Beck… or did we forget our famous Nightfall Sermon? You left because they rode you out of town on a rail.  And if we hadn’t done that… it would have been a lot worse.  For you.  You made Matty blame himself, Quentin.  For what you did.  For all of it.  I don’t even know how… you just have a knack…”  </p><p>“It’s not hard kid,” Quentin said, looking him directly in the eye.  His gentle tone was gone, but his thumb still remained in Peter’s grip, his hand hanging just an inch from Peter’s body, in no hurry to move away.</p><p>“There’s no trick to it.  Everyone in the world, everyone on the planet, either blames themselves for everything, or else they blame themselves for nothing.  I always have a 50/50 shot.”</p><p>“You’re the kind of man who does a lot of damage, Quentin.”</p><p>“That’s why I traveled, Peter.  I turned down a lot of better jobs in bigger churches and I stayed on the road nine months out of the year.  It was less money, but staying in one place, I would have done TOO MUCH damage. As long as I kept moving, never going back to any place more than twice, it was different…”</p><p>“Damage is damage, Quentin, even if you spread it around.</p><p>“But you were okay…”</p><p>“Because I already had a boyfriend, because I wasn’t desperately lonely, isolated in this one-shitter town and thinking I was the only gay kid in New York, or even the entire world.  I was lucky enough to know better than that.  Because my boyfriend happened to be a 1600 year old demon who had lived in monastery where everyone was gay including some notable saints…”</p><p>A crash of thunder came from overhead, startling both of them.  They looked at each other in surprise.  The night had been dry… they had just been outside in it moments before…</p><p>The next clap of thunder made them wince, and Peter willingly moved out of Quentin’s lap as he grabbed his keys off the dashboard and tried to start the truck.  The thunder sounded less like a storm and more like a series of explosions.  It sounded as if lightning had hit several trees nearby, yet there had been no flashes of light.  In fact the night was pitch black.  They could barely see each other through the eerie lights of the dashboard.  </p><p>“No no no no no no…” Quentin was moaning, his voice rising in fear, desperately trying to jam his keys into the ignition, failing in his panic.  “And this is when the truck won’t start, oh god, oh god please not again…”</p><p>“Quentin, we’re okay.  It’s dark, but we’re not… we’re not un-safe.  I promise…”</p><p>And then the scratching started.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>All questions, comments and corrections are welcome!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. These Are My Woods</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p></p><div class="">
  <p> Quentin yelped and looked about him in fear.  Peter looked too, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. They were surrounded on all sides by noise, and yet there was nothing to see.  Something wasn’t right.  Still, he wasn’t alarmed.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Quentin, we’re still okay,” Peter said solidly.  The noises were strange, but the night?  The night was absolutely his territory.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You’re safe, Quentin.  These are <em>my</em> woods.  Nothing can hurt you as long as you stay with me.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Something large and solid slammed into the truck, rocking it on its tires.  The first time Quentin whimpered.  The next time he yelped and jumped so badly Peter found himself wrapping his arms around the man and hugging him like a child.  “You’re okay… okay… look this isn’t right.  Let’s get to someplace safer...”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The next clap of thunder was loud enough to rattle the walls as well as the windows.  Peter looked around in surprise and alarm.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>But the alarm faded when he realized where he was. He would recognize those sash windows anywhere, although he usually saw them from the outside.  Even in the darkness of the house he could see how the patterns Tony had cleverly worked into the ornate wooden banisters perfectly matched the wrought-iron outside, which matched the patterns on Peter’s dining room table.  <em>Of course</em>, this was the perfect place to hide and wait out the storm.  In fact, he was <em>glad</em> to be here.  He had seen the outside of the South House in a dozen paintings, but he had only seen the <em>inside</em> in dreams like these.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Quentin, on the other hand, was clearly panicking.  He was looking around him around him and gasping for air, as if he were looking at something terrifying and whimpering “Oh not this place, not again… oh please not again…”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Quentin, we’re alright.  This is a safe place to…”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Quentin stood up from the settee so quickly he threw Peter onto the floor.  Peter’s hands scrambled for purchase, causing him to crumple the Queen Ann rug.  “Hey watch it!” he cried out, panicking a little himself.  That rug was an actual antique, not a replica.  It was the one they had found in the chapel.  “For godssake Quentin just calm down!  You’ll be safe if you just stay with me… Quentin!”  He was yelling now, trying to be heard over thunder so loud it was shaking the entire house.  But it was too late.  Quentin was already out of the room.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Frustrated, Peter followed the man out into the atrium and then out the door. Into the storm.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The smell of roses was overpowering in the dark garden, Peter noted.  There was no smell of rain at all, even though the sky was laced with lightning and the booming thunder was almost constant.  Peter made his way in and out of ivy-covered arches and around the swing, cursing. Why did only get to catch glimpses of Ada’s beautiful garden when he was hopelessly distracted by other things? He had almost given up on finding Quentin when he heard his own name, being chanted like a prayer.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Peter Parker, Peter Parker… Peter Parker…”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’m here,” Peter said firmly, appearing directly behind Quentin and taking him by the hand. The man was standing right in front of him, head bowed and hidden under one arm, eyes tightly closed, shaking where he stood.  Before them both stood a terrifying figure, nearly 10 feet tall with arms that hung well passed his knees, hands almost scraping the ground.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“That’s very impressive,” Peter said calmly, addressing the figure.  “But not necessary right now.  What are you doing anyway?  What is all this about?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“WhatisitPeterwhatisit?” Quentin said, or whispered rather.  In fact his voice was coming out more like a squeak.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Quentin Beck, allow me to introduce the ghost of… well… it’s not <em>really</em> the ghost of Evan Post.  We just call it that...  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Quentin, allow me to introduce the <em>Invisible Friend</em> of Evan Post.  Who, as you can see, is not always invisible.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“He’s not real, he’s not real…” Quentin whispered to himself, his eyes clenched shut.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Actually he’s very real,” Peter said calmly.  He held Quentin’s hand in both of his while looking directly at his friend, nodding in approval.  It was a most impressive figure.  The long teeth, in particular, were very gruesome.  Especially when it smiled.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“He’s real, he just doesn’t really look like that… I mean… well he does really look like that, but he just doesn’t look like that all the time.  Hey, it could be worse.  You could have met the Wendigo…”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Peter closed his mouth hard and suddenly on the word.  He didn’t want Quentin to meet the Wendigo, or at least, the thing he thought of as “the Wendigo.”  <em>That</em> figure, the one that was seven feet tall with an enormous prick that was prone to carrying Peter off into the woods to tear off his clothes and had a specific penchant for dragging Peter into place by his ankles and holding him still with one massive hand...</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>…well, if it was going to be <em>that</em> kind of dream, Quentin needed to be gone.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Peter, help me, help me,” Quentin begged.  “Tell me it isn’t real, tell me it’s not...”  He was all but sobbing now.  And Quentin sobbing had nothing to do with the Wendigo-In-The-Dark-Woods dream, nothing at all. Peter closed his eyes tight and shook his head hard.  That was a private dream, a <em>very</em> private dream.  One that didn’t involve Quentin, nor any other person. Specifically not the other person that he was beginning to think was nearby…</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“No, listen.  I told you, he is real.  But he doesn’t have to have to look like that all the time.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Excuse me,” Peter called out to the figure, standing about twenty feet away from them.  “Thank you. That’s very terrifying.  I’m sure Wes Craven would be very impressed. But could we not right now? I know… I know you… hey.  You know what?  I bet you never put that form on for Ada Post.  Can we have Ada’s invisible friend instead, please?</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>They saw him, for a moment.  Peter couldn’t quite tell if it looked like a fairy lad, or a high school aged boy playing a fairy lad in a Shakespearian production.  In the end, he realized, it really looked suspiciously a lot like Lysander.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Exactly, thank you,” Peter said calmly.  But the figure still wasn’t quite solid, which seemed to be unnerving Quentin, so Peter put himself between the two of them and tried to speak in a calming voice.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Listen to me,” Peter said firmly, ignoring the thunder and lightning and winds that were now whipping through the garden and making an eerie whistling noise.  “Quentin, this is a dream.  But it’s my dream, and it’s happening in one of my favorite places, so there’s no reason for it to turn ugly.   If you remember to stay with me.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>  “I know it’s a dream, it’s a bad one.  And I can’t… I can’t do this again, I’m at the end of my rope Peter, I’m not strong enough to keep going...” Quentin complained, reluctantly following Peter as Peter led him back into the house.   “It starts out in the truck and it’s dead on the road and I can’t start it, there was something outside lurking and thumping against the truck and scratching and I just knew… I just knew it was going to tear me to pieces and I just can’t take it anymore Peter.  I can’t live like this.  I’m losing my mind.  But this time… this time it was different.  This time it slammed against the truck but then it talked to me. It talked to me, and it told me if I said your name 3 times you would come to me…”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You don’t have to say anything, Quentin, I’m right here. This is just a dream and as long as we…”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The ground started rumbling beneath them, vibrating at first, then rolling, knocking Quentin off his feet.  Peter glared at the ground in irritation, then turned back with a worried look at the garden.  For a whole moment he worried that the earthquake would damage it.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>But that was ridiculous.  The garden was just a dream, a  memory.  A timeless thing of beauty memorialized in paintings (until Evan Post had Tony razed it to the ground because there was no other way to get rid of the constant  waves of trespassing painters.)</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“No!  Please, please, I <em>can’t</em>…” Quentin shouted, pulling up from the ground and standing on his feet as if he were afraid that the ground itself would grab him.  Then, before Peter could stop him, he was running back into the house.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“What is this all about?” Peter shouted in frustration, glaring at the figure behind him, now ten feet tall again and grinning obscenely.  “What are you two <em>doing</em>?”  But the figure didn’t answer.  The only one who would have answers was Quentin.  With a heavy sigh, Peter set out to find him again.</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. We Do NOT Call Miss Foster a Bitch</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="">
    <p>Locating Quentin in the house should have been easy, since Peter just had to follow the sound of the hysterical shouting, but the house was becoming a maze of impossible proportions.  Dashing through the atrium to the parlor to the hall then into a gentleman’s parlor that Peter happened to know the house <em>didn’t</em> include... and now he knew he wasn’t in the South House anymore because this was a room full of windows facing the east, and that was in a building that only existed in his head. </p>
  </div>
  <div class="">
    <p>Cursing he turned back and tried to find the house he had started out in… but</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p> this was no good, this was just the huge library that he and Matty liked to talk about, the library they were planning to build in the property when Peter inherited the property and had lots of money because Tony had made him rich.  It would be a real library but also a place to display all the books that they had found in the underground chapel.  But most importantly, they had planned bedrooms off to the side so that people could stay the night, like at a bed-and-breakfast.  Only it would be a bed-and-library. It would be named after Abe Sexton, since most of the books there that they could display were his journals.   Peter said that there would be a lot of people who had always dreamed of living in a library, but Matty had other ideas.  Ideas about a place dedicated to people who, like Abe Sexton, weren’t interested in either men or women.  It was an important part of Matty’s vision for the art colony that Peter wanted to create here someday.  A way to make it clear that Peter’s art colony didn’t just accept gay people and straight people, but people who didn’t want to be either.  “And polyamorous people, of course,” Matty would always add, with a wink.  “The Posts accepted polyamorous people too.”  Peter always had to argue with that.  Yes, <em>their</em> art colony would accept all types, but he couldn’t pretend the Post family accepted polyamorous people the same way they accepted same-sex couples.  It’s not like they could point to any house built for <em>three</em> people.  Then Matty would counter that he, Peter and Tony were in a polyamorous relationship, and <em>all</em> of Tony’s Masters were too, since they all had human spouses, and Peter would have to concede.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>But Peter didn’t want to be in the dream-library now!  With a growl of frustration, Peter turned back again, determined to find his way through the dream of the South House.  He found himself in the tiny dining room.  He could hear Quentin shouting, nearby, but when he forced the doors open he only found himself standing in the atrium again, looking outside into the foreboding garden.  A dark figure stood there, seven feet tall and holding out a becoming hand.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Not now, <em>amante</em>,” Peter said softly.  “That will have to wait until we’re alone.  And there’s something wrong here, something I have to figure out.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Turning around, Peter realized that there was another voice now, a <em>woman’s</em> voice.  It was answering calmly, even as Quentin pleaded and shouted and begged and threatened.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I can’t… please I can’t take this any more!” Quentin was saying, while the calm woman’s voice said something else.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Something that sounded like “not yet frightened.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Peter’s head snapped up at the words.  Suddenly he realized he had to stop struggling with the house.  He closed his eyes and <em>willed</em> himself into the same room as Quentin.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Hey hey <em>hey</em>!” he cried out, grabbing Quentin with both arms and using one hand to cover Quentin’s mouth as the man shouted himself hoarse.  “We do not call Miss Foster a bitch!  Laura, <em>please</em>,” Peter said over his shoulder at the pale woman kneeling on the floor behind them.  “Can you just give us a moment?</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Quentin, listen to me,” Peter said as calmly as he could, holding the older man close.  He was vaguely aware that he must have grown another two inches.  He and Quentin were now the same height.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“The trick is to stop fighting it, Quentin.  This is a nightmare, but that?”  He gestured behind him.  “That is not <em>your</em> nightmare.  Look!  Look at Laura,” he said, releasing Quentin with one arm and using it to point to the girl kneeling on the floor.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I am not yet frightened,” the girl was saying, her voice gurgling hideously through the slit in her throat.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yes, that’s very impressive, thank you Laura, but could you give us a minute?  Quentin needs a break.  Just… go bleed in the atrium for a while.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Quentin listen to me, this woman isn’t pissed at you.  <em>You</em> didn’t murder her.  This… I know you don’t believe me, but this isn’t a ghost.  This is not a haunted house.  This is a memory of a very lovely house, and this…</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You’re seeing the last nightmare of Tom Dylan Post,” Peter said quietly, bringing Quentin’s head to his and stroking his hair. Quentin was in tears, his head resting on Peter’s shoulder as he explained.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Listen… we told you this story at one of those horrible lockins you forced us to have.  We told you the story of Tom Dylan.  But what those other boys didn’t know was… what we didn’t know was that Tom Dylan… he didn’t kill Laura because she jilted him.  He killed Laura for <em>practice</em>.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Listen to me... Tom Dylan had decided he wanted to be Jack the Ripper when he grew up.  That’s why he was so obsessed with London.  The family servant… that was the family’s familiar… he told Thomas Post, who decided the best thing to do was let Tom Dylan get it out of his system by killing pretend-women in the woods around their house.  So every night that’s what Jr. did, he went out and stalked the familiar… that was the Tall Man you saw outside.  The familiar would look like a young woman, and let Tom Dylan grab him and slit his throat.  So that’s what Tom Dylan did… just killed the family familiar over and over again. For years.  But then one day he finally he decided to do it to a <em>real</em> woman and... well, it didn’t go very well.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I am not yet frightened,” Laura intoned behind them.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“That’s right Laura, and you <em>shouldn’t</em> be,” Peter said, turning to her.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Because she scratched the tar out of him, Quentin,” Peter said, turning back to the shivering man.  “She fought so hard.  She broke his hand and she gave him a swollen lip and a black eye.  She really messed him up.  All those pretend-women, he slit their throats and they just lay down quietly and died.  He showed his knife to a real woman and the real woman <em>fought back</em>.  So when it was over he came back here and killed himself, because he realized he wasn’t going to make a good Jack-the-Ripper after all.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“So he ordered the families familiar to kill him.  He tried to lie to it, but that didn’t work. <em>No</em> magician can keep secrets from their familiar.  Methuselah, he saw it all.  And that…” He pointed at the woman on the floor with pride.  “<em>That</em> is the last thing Tom Dylan saw while he died.  And he died for <em>hours</em>.  Hours of watching her repeat the last words she said to him when she was alive, over and over again.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I appreciate you explaining this all to me, Peter,” Quentin said in a shaky voice, wiping his face with one hand.  “Now can you please explain to me how I’m supposed to hold a job down when <em>I can’t sleep</em>?  I’m not surprised you have all this information, thanks,  but it doesn’t matter – I just can’t keep going like this.  Every time I start to work I… I don’t need you to tell me who killed who and why… I just need you to tell me that<em> this isn’t real.</em>   Not that it matters, because I’m going to wake up at 4:00 am in the morning knowing that it happened <em>again</em>... I might as well go ahead and do what I was told… just drown myself in the lake in Tuller Hill forest…”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Quentin?”  Peter said, suddenly looking the man full in the face.   “Quentin, <em>who</em> told you to drown yourself in a lake?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“It’s not real,” Quentin said.  Begged.  “Tell me it’s not real.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Peter stared at his pale face, gaping.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Tell me it’s not real?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“It <strong><em>is</em></strong> real,” Peter said, wondering.  “That’s why it’s so different.  This is very, very real.  We’re both here in this dream together.  I… I drove back from Cornell last night and right now I’m asleep in my bed in Devil’s Hollow.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Quentin… <strong><em>where are you?”</em></strong></p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Victim That Doesn't Fight Back</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>That off-screen violence I tagged?  This is it.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“I’m with you in this stupid haunted house…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No.  I mean no... it’s not stupid... this house is a work of art and moreover it’s not haunted. I mean </span>
  <em>
    <span>where are you</span>
  </em>
  <span>?  Matthew tried to track you down but after you left your parents house in Albany and headed to Jersey you just fell off the map. Where are you now?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m dreaming…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes,” Peter said as patiently as he could.  “Because you’re asleep... in a bed… or maybe in your truck... and </span>
  <em>
    <span>where </span>
  </em>
  <span>is it Quentin?  Where are you sleeping </span>
  <em>
    <span>right now</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin opened his mouth but nothing came out.  He looked into Peter’s eyes, startled.  But then he shook his head, closed his eyes, and answered the question.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m in Mrs. Percy’s guest room.  It smells like mothballs and her cooking is terrible and she’s claims she’s going to set me up with her niece and she’s driving me crazy but I can’t afford the hotel here.  I just have to keep making nice until the first paycheck.  I’m supposed to start my work at the Greek Peak chapel tomorrow…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Greek… but that’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>right</span>
  </em>
  <span> by Tuller Hill forest. That’s right next door…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>tried </span>
  </em>
  <span>staying away from Devil’s Holler’ but it didn’t work,” he moaned.  “Going south never worked.  No matter how far away I get from this hellhole it still comes for me.  So I got a lead at a job in Greek Peak and decided I might as well try.  But it didn’t… I can’t… I can’t work if I can’t sleep Peter…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thunder boomed and the house groaned like a man in pain.  Laura tried to raise her voice above the din as the southern part of the room began to collapse.  Quentin screamed and fell to the floor.  The ground pitched and rolled like a ship at sea, but Peter had no trouble keeping his feet. Unimpressed he turned to face the new oncoming terror.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He straightened his back and squared his shoulders, glaring as the wall in front of him crumbled and fell into dust. He didn’t approve of </span>
  <em>
    <span>any </span>
  </em>
  <span>attack on the South House, dream or no dream.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I did </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>not </em>
  </b>
  <em>
    <span>authorize this nightmare Matthew DeSlaughter!”</span>
  </em>
  <span> Peter shouted out as the rolling cloud of smoke appeared, a robed magician astride it.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Angrily he turned back to Quentin.  He wasn’t expecting a Dueling Magicians dream, but he wouldn’t turn one down either.  He’d been having </span>
  <em>
    <span>those </span>
  </em>
  <span>dreams long before Matty, and he was better at it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dramatically he waved his hands at the wall behind Quentin, forcing a doorway to form in the wall... a door that would lead to the waking world.  It wasn’t serene or calming like he wanted.  In fact it was just the opposite; a portal boiling and churning with smoke, but he was too angry to do anything about that now. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One semester!”  Peter shouted as he turned back to face Matty, now towering atop of the cloud that was hovering above him.  “I am barely away for </span>
  <em>
    <span>one semester</span>
  </em>
  <span> and this is what you’re doing behind my back?!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Get out</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Quentin,” he commanded, just as angrily.  “And when you wake up, remember this:  you didn’t give the Nightfall sermon because YOU chose to, we chose that for you.  And you didn’t leave Eli Road Baptist because it was the right thing to do, you never had a choice.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And I can forgive you because you pissed me off, but you didn’t hurt me the way you hurt Matty.  You want to sleep at night?  Then </span>
  <em>
    <span>apologize to him</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Not now, not while you’re hanging out the floor of a haunted house with the corpse of Laura Foster…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin turned to look at where Peter was pointing. He yelped when he realized how close he was to the butchered girl and struggled to his feet.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“…but in the morning, in the daylight, when you wake up and tell yourself it was all a dream.  THAT’S when you apologize, Quentin, and don’t give him that bullshit about your 50/50 chance that he would blame himself… you know who will blame themselves and who won’t.  You have a knack for it.  If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have gotten as far.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And you tell him you came in your pants because you have a hair trigger, and not because </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>did anything wrong.  And you tell him you decided to spread the damage around the little towns just so you </span>
  <em>
    <span>wouldn’t get caught</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No no no no…” Quentin said, looking up and into the door that had formed behind him, looked into the churning smoke.  “I can’t, not in there, come with me Peter, help me…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not going with you, I have an angry high priest-in-training to argue with.  I didn’t know I could be called into a dream, Quentin, but I </span>
  <em>
    <span>won’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>be called here the next time. I won’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>want</span>
  </em>
  <span> to be here. Matthew is still pissed at you and he has every right to be.  Make this right in the morning or your own your own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An angry crack of thunder caused Peter to turn.  Dramatically Matthew began his descent from his impressing stormcloud (it started out a rich, impressive gold-tinted grey at the top, but then the colors changed gradually until it ended in a ghostly white at his feet.  There was a word for that, but Peter didn’t know it.  Matthew would know.  Matthew was trying to talk his dad into letting him major in art in college, and Peter thought it was a good idea.  Matty’s sketches for the library and the house they would one day build was proof of that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“His fate is in </span>
  <em>
    <span>my </span>
  </em>
  <span>hands, Knight-Errant!”  Matthew’s voice echoed impressively throughout the house as he descended the cloud like a staircase.  His purple cape billowed behind him impressively.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m</span>
  </em>
  <span> the Dynast, </span>
  <em>
    <span>you’re </span>
  </em>
  <span>the Knight-Errant until I say otherwise!”  Peter hissed, hoping Quentin couldn’t overhear.  But the truth was he was far more interested in how impressive Matty’s high-priest’s outfit looked, now that he had perfected it.  Peter’s design looked more like Luke Skywalker in Return of the Jedi.  Matty’s design, he had to admit, was far sexier.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He has trod upon my sacred ground, and I am the Dyanst </span>
  <em>
    <span>here</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  His mortal body is forfeit to </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t cite the old magic to me, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Curandero</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” Peter called out forcefully, but the truth was he was just killing time.  Finally Matty had come down his cloud-staircase and was standing close enough that Peter could talk to him without Quentin overhearing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should have asked me first…” he hissed when Matthew’s tall black boots finally made contact with the wooden floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I had asked, you would have said no…” Matthew hissed back.  “And don’t give me the ‘loaded gun’ lecture again Peter!  I can’t believe you’re defending </span>
  <em>
    <span>him…</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not defending him, but you should have </span>
  <em>
    <span>asked</span>
  </em>
  <span> first.  Tony is my demon, not yours…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tony doesn’t mind…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh yeah?  Then why did Tony tell him to call my name 3 times to bring me here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matthew opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.  He was clearly taken aback by the information.  Peter gave him a moment, hoping the argument was over.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No such luck.  “Do you know who that is?” Matthew shouted, pointing at Laura Foster, still kneeling and bleeding dramatically on the floor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter could barely answer, he was too busy sputtering.  “Do </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span>… what?  The only reason </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> know who she is…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s the woman who ended Tom Dylan’s career as a serial killer </span>
  <em>
    <span>on the same day it began.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Complete silence filled the room.  Even the thunder paused.  Peter gaped at Matthew, then at Quentin, and finally at Laura herself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did Tony tell you that Tom Dylan had packed the wagon ready to head for New York?  Did he tell you that the man had packed all his inheritance </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>some of his sisters’ to boot?  And that his book of St. Cyprian was full of charms to keep Tony off of him, as long as he stayed 30 leagues away from the homestead?  Did you know he was determined to take a boat to London to become the next Jack the Ripper?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter stared in wonder at the figure on the floor, and the figure on the floor stared right back. She was a tall and sturdy girl, and probably very attractive, in her day, when she wasn’t a bled-out corpse.  Her almond-shaped eyes were dark and very striking. No wonder Ada Post was crazy about her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He had actually studied maps of the streets of London so he could recreate the murders in detail.  And he had loaded up with enough magic to make sure he didn’t get caught.  He had planned it out for </span>
  <em>
    <span>years</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Might have gone on killing people for years.  But she stopped him.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>She </span>
  </em>
  <span>messed up his plans so badly he came straight back home to off himself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because she beat the crap out of him…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because she </span>
  <em>
    <span>scared</span>
  </em>
  <span> the crap out of him.  She messed up his face and she loosened a tooth when she hit him with her head.  By the time it was over and she was really dead he was screaming and crying and throwing up and pissing himself…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, I know that part.  He couldn’t keep secrets from Tony, Tony saw it in his mind...”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But now do you </span>
  <em>
    <span>get it</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” Matthew grabbed Peter by both arms, shaking him until he turned back to look his friend in the face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Methuselah was ordered to let Tom Dylan kill him because Thomas Post thought that would get it out of his system.  Methuselah played the victim a hundred times... thousand times, but Tom </span>
  <em>
    <span>never got it out of his system</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  Then he got his first victim and his first victim </span>
  <b>
    <em>fought back</em>
  </b>
  <span>.  And the FIRST TIME his victim fought back, he quit.  Don’t you see?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We </span>
  <b>
    <em>can’t </em>
  </b>
  <span>be victims that </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t fight back</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  As long as his victims don’t fight back, he gets to keep on going.  We’re the only ones that </span>
  <em>
    <span>can</span>
  </em>
  <span> stop him…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Okay, okay… </span>
  <em>
    <span>but…”  </span>
  </em>
  <span>Peter lowered his voice, bringing their heads close. Now that the constant thunder was finished it had grown very quiet in the house, and Peter didn’t want Quentin to hear this part.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But Tony brought me here for a reason.  Matty, when I was 15 I asked Tony outright to kill a man and he talked me out of it.  Not because that man deserved to live, but because </span>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> deserved to live my life without that on my conscience.  </span>
  <em>
    <span>He knows you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Matty, and he knows human nature…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter glanced behind him at Quentin, looking helplessly into the doorway full of fog.  Then he turned and, wrapping his hand around the back of his friend’s head, and pulled their foreheads together.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“ And he should… he has about 2000 years experience with this… with human beings and regret.”  Peter whispered.  “</span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m</span>
  </em>
  <span> not asking you to back off a little, here,   He is.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter took a step to the side, deliberately putting his body between his friend and the man behind him.  He didn’t want Quentin, just now, to see Matty’s face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Convincing him to drown himself in a lake, that’s not the answer.  Living with his death on our conscience, that’s not the answer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do we have to let </span>
  <em>
    <span>him </span>
  </em>
  <span>know that?” Matty was asking, his face crumpling.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh </span>
  <em>
    <span>god </span>
  </em>
  <span>no…” Peter whispered.  He let go of his friend, straightened his back, then turned to point dramatically toward the door of churning fog.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get out, Quentin,” Peter ordered, with all the authority he could muster.  </span>
  <span>“And when you wake up, remember this.  If you want to sleep through the night, you have to follow </span>
  <b>
    <em>our </em>
  </b>
  <span>conditions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“First, that letter of apology to Matthew…”  he said, then turned his head back a little to the boy standing behind him</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And quit trying to preach again,” Matthew said, his voice just on the edge of steady.  “Go back to selling insurance for your dad.  You </span>
  <em>
    <span>said </span>
  </em>
  <span>you could make a lot of money doing that - you bragged about it all the time.  Go do it.  Stay the fuck away from the pulpit.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am not an insurance salesman!” Quentin cried out petulantly, his eyes now fixed on Laura Foster, who seemed to be herding him toward the door.  “You can’t imagine how boring it is, or how </span>
  <em>
    <span>humiliating </span>
  </em>
  <span>it is… being a fucking salesman??  I was </span>
  <em>
    <span>born </span>
  </em>
  <span>to preach, everyone says so…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, yes, and I’m sure it’s great for your ego, standing up there at the pulpit and having everyone in the crowd hanging on your every word and telling you how wonderful you were afterward… if you need an audience that bad then be a stage actor.  But your preaching career is over… you’re too damn dangerous, Quentin.  You tell a boy it was all his idea and he believes it, and there’s no way to disarm you.  If you’re so hellbent on preaching, go to the city to one of those gay churches in NYC… you’ll be a guarunteed hit.  But until you come out of the closet, there’s no more churches in your future.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And it doesn’t matter how close or how far you are from Devil’s Holler… </span>
  <em>
    <span>our </span>
  </em>
  <span>devil knows where you are, and he’ll find you.  Try to sneak back into the pulpit </span>
  <span>while still in the closet you’ll do a LOT MORE than THINKING about drowning yourself in a lake…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not going to let that happen Peter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quentin’s tone of voice gave Peter a jolt, although he tried to hide it.  That whiny, childish tone was gone and suddenly they were hearing the Quentin that commanded the pulpit.  His back was straight and his eyes were trained on Peter.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not going to let that </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing</span>
  </em>
  <span>, whatever it is, really hurt me,” he said, his shoulders squared.  He was no longer backing away from Laura’s kneeling form.  When she reached for him, he kicked her off like a dog.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All I have to do is call your name three times.  And you </span>
  <em>
    <span>will </span>
  </em>
  <span>come, Peter, I know you will.  Because you still have feelings for me - I can see it in your eyes.  What we had in the truck that night, as brief as it was, it was real.  I know that now.  And I know you still feel it too.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was your first kiss… I know I scared you off because I moved too fast, and that was my fault.  But you’ve been dreaming about that night, just like I have.   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You still care about me.  And you care a lot more about your first kiss than you do about your next door neighbor’s little brother…”  he nodded toward Matthew.  Then he glanced back at the churning fog of the door behind him.  When he turned back, his eyes were commanding and stern.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Now get over here</span>
  </em>
  <span> and walk with me through this door so I can wake up.  I have some notes on tomorrow’s sermon that I need to make.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter took three steps into the middle of the room.  He stopped beside the pale, solemn ghost of Laura Foster, kneeling just an arms reach away from Quentin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then he turned around, walked up to Matthew, grabbed the back of his head and kissed him full on the mouth. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Matty was startled, but his hands went to Peter’s face automatically, the way they always did.  Then, when he realized what was happening, he kissed back.  </span>
  <span>Peter stepped forward an inch bringing their bodies together, and he pressed forward with a moan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had almost forgotten about Quentin altogether when the man made a low, wordless noise.  Peter recognized the noise immediately… it was the sound of fear.  Fear that refused to be spoken, but was heard anyway… heard through a clenched jaw.  Peter knew that sound because he had heard it before - had heard it behind his own locked jaw years ago when he was reading through Abe Sexton’s journals.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulled away from Matthew’s mouth just enough to speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I care more about my High Priest than I do about some backwater roving preacher hiding deep in the closet behind his JCPenney shirts and his boxes of hair gel.  Stay or leave,  Quentin, I don’t much care which.  Just remember, the next time you find yourself in this house, </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t </span>
  </em>
  <span>look for me.  I won’t be here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew </span>
  </em>
  <span>you would be okay,” Quentin said, trying to sound calm, but Peter would recognize that tremulous sound anywhere.  “That’s why I did it, because I knew you would be okay, I knew you’d </span>
  <em>
    <span>both </span>
  </em>
  <span>be....”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You did it because you have self control, and that's why you’re dangerous.  And from now on, your fate is up to my High Priest…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turned to look into Matthew’s green, green eyes.  He didn’t finish the sentence.  Matthew kissed him then, and he decided that was far more important.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>AO3 is not the place for constructive crit... unless it is asked for.</p><p>THIS IS ME ASKING FOR IT.  </p><p>-----------------------------------------------------------------</p><p>You can't leave another kudo, so why not leave a comment?</p><p>Comments are easy, just cut and paste your favorite line.</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>